


When They Meet

by Immicolia



Series: Prelude to Tragedy [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! 5D's
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 14:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immicolia/pseuds/Immicolia
Summary: The first time they meet Bolger is spoiling for a fight and Pearson drags him out of it, ultimately offering him a place to crash for a while.He never expects the kid to stay as long as he does.





	When They Meet

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written back in 2010 (because boy was I ever fixated on Pearson and Bolger back then... okay still am to a degree) I just never got around to uploading it anywhere but my writing journals at the time. So I'm properly archiving it now.

When they meet Bolger is a scrappy sixteen-year-old and Pearson is twenty-three and exhausted with life already. Waiting in line for food (because he's always waiting in line for _something_ \-- food, fresh water, medicine, toilet paper) and Bolger is obviously looking to start shit with Security. Too thin and bruised and scraped and ready to fight for what he needs to survive.

Pearson tells himself he should know better than to get involved. The kid is obviously self-destructive and will wind up either marked or dead before too long. Possibly even before the end of the day at the rate things are going....

And damn his inability to stand by and let that happen anyway.

Without a second thought he slides out of his place in line, grabs the loud-mouthed little shit by the arm and practically marches him off. Bolger cursing him out the entire way and Pearson shoots back just as sharply that tangling with Security won't win him anything but an early death or a prison term and a harder life for everyone else.

"I don't care!" is the inevitable response and Pearson remembers being him once. During that first year and the riots when people were screaming for food and medicine and for _someone_ to help pull them out of this rubble-heap and there's still a puckered scar on his thigh from where a bullet went in.

"You should. There's nothing noble in getting yourself killed over a lost cause."

Bolger's chin lifts slightly, his face twisting into an expression of pure disgust and their heads are tilted close enough together that Pearson can see the cut creasing the boy's lower lip and the fading yellowish remnants of a bruise decorating his jaw.

"And how does standing in line waiting for scraps make anything better? People like you are _letting_ them hold us down to work in a goddamn garbage dump."

"Let me guess, you think we should fight? Band together and stand up for the right to be treated as human beings." He pauses, not sure if he wants to laugh hysterically or start crying over how far away such a simple thing is. And in the end it's a strange sort of bitter smile that twists its way across his lips. "I've been there. I've been beaten and shot at and put in holding and I'm thankful every goddamn day that they hadn't started marking people back then. You think there's some grand revolution to be a part of? There isn't. There's nothing but a lot of poor and hungry people trying to keep alive. That's all. And most people are too tired to do much beyond stand in line and try to make things better in their own ways. You're old enough, you should realize this."

Bolger's expression is tight and angry through all of this and when he finally speaks his voice is a low growl. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life sorting trash."

"Neither do I."

They fall silent for a moment. Bolger looking as if he's torn between wanting to stomp away or possibly waiting for Pearson to walk away first, and the expression on his face reminds Pearson a little bit of the dogs he sees roaming around. Something that used to be tame but then the world fell apart and in the ensuing desperation he found himself getting kicked for reasons he couldn't understand. The whole experience leaving Bolger wild-eyed and wary and ready to eye anyone that came near with pure mistrust and snap if they got too close out of some form of fearful self-defence.

He should just leave the kid be. Logically his mind knows that. He's saved him once now and gotten nothing but cursed at for his trouble. But all the same he smiles and finds himself saying, "Do you have a place to go?"

"Of course!" is the reply, one that Pearson expected and one that is said in a tone so aggravated and edgy (Bolger's eyes darting to the side as he looks as if he simply wants to run from the alley and never look back) that it's obviously a lie.

Pearson nods like he believes him, slow and thoughtful, and when he speaks again his tone is carefully distant. "I've got a place on the edge of the old industrial park near the BADs. I do repairs for people; got this old warehouse I've set up as a workshop. It's not the best place to live in, though. I'm trying to convert one of the side buildings into a house of sorts but it's a lot of work and between that and trying to do my regular jobs...." He shrugs, carefully watching Bolger's reaction (or more, lack thereof) out of the corner of his eye. "I could use a little help."

There's an edgy sort of silence, and for a moment Pearson thinks that maybe Bolger is going to tell him to fuck off when the reply comes in an edgy sort of mutter, "What the hell makes you think I could help with something like that? I don't know shit about building or renovating or...."

"You can learn if you want to try."

There's a vague sort of grumble and a huffy sigh in response and for a moment Pearson thinks that's all he's going to get, ready to turn away when a barely audible mutter of "nothing funny? Just basic labour for a place to live?" stops him.

"Nothing funny." And there's something about having to reassure him of that that leaves a sick sort of feeling in the pit of Pearson's stomach. "It won't be easy, but it's not sorting trash at least. And you'll get a roof over your head and steady meals. I've already got a few kids living there. One more doesn't make a difference in the long run."

"I'm not a kid!"

"If you were I wouldn't be asking you to do heavy labour," Pearson shoots back with a wry sort of smile. "So?"

It's a surprise that Bolger actually agrees to come back with him. Shoulders hunched in a leather jacket that's just a little too big as he trails along after, looking ready to bolt at any moment and Pearson tries to keep things light, talking about nothing of consequence. His tone indifferent as he goes on about his place and the work that needs to be done to make it habitable and the few children he's been keeping an eye on. Content to carry on a one-sided conversation even as a part of him questions his own sanity in offering shelter to someone he knows nothing about. Kids are one thing; kids probably won't rob him blind and murder him in the night. But this....

This is a risk he has to take. Just as before, his conscience won't let him do otherwise. So he shoots Bolger an easy smile as he rambles, all his misgivings hidden behind a cheerful tone and an easy, loose limbed, stride.

 

* * *

 

Getting information out of Bolger is a slow, delicate process. Not quite fitting into the overused metaphor of pulling teeth because the answers will come, provided the right questions are asked and depending on just how at-ease Bolger feels at any given moment. But for the first few days he is close-mouthed and wary and answering every question with an edgy one word answer to the point where it takes almost a week for Pearson to pry the kid's full name out of him. ( _"It's James. My mom called me Jamie.... Don't call me that. Ever."_ )

He doesn't push it. Letting Bolger keep to himself when he wants to (which is often) and keeping his own time divided between working on the repairs that he gets paid for, keeping an eye on the kids that hang around and occasionally checking in on Bolger to make sure he's not having problems working on the outbuilding. Carefully trying to initiate conversation when the day is mostly over and they're settling in to eat, every question asked with a casual sort of indifference. As if he doesn't care one way or the other as to what the answers are.

"How long you been on your own now?"

There's a shrug, an edgy sort of glance away, then: "three, four years," and Pearson tries to not let the dismay he feels at that answer show on his face. Bolger is too young to have been alone for this long. Certainly, there's plenty kids out there on their own, plenty who are younger than Bolger and dealing with worse, but that's an abstract thought while Bolger is a reality sitting next to him and eying him warily as he gulps down the small amount of food they have like it's his last meal.

"So you were... thirteen?"

"Twelve. I think. I dunno."

"You lost track? When's your birthday?"

"Does it matter?"

"No. Not really. I'm just curious."

"More like nosey," the words a barely audible mutter, spoken around a mouthful of bread. "That sorta shit gets you killed."

Pearson pretends he didn't hear that last part (certain he wasn't supposed to anyway) turning his attention back to his own meal. Every day the answers get a little bit longer, and that at the very least is something. Just like the fact that Bolger is actually sleeping at night now instead of sitting huddled in a corner with his back pressed firmly to the wall, staring into the darkness with wary eyes and dozing only when exhaustion finally overtakes him.

He still remembers that first night, when he'd gone to drape a blanket over Bolger's too thin form and the boy had jerked to an immediate sort of wild-eyed attention. Breath rasping harshly in his throat and Pearson had stepped back slow and easy, a reassuring smile on his lips as he murmured, "It's okay. It's just a blanket. I told you I'm not going to pull anything funny and everyone else here is ten and under."

Bolger said nothing in response to that, his eyes still wide and wary as he tugged the blanket tight around his shoulders. Muttering something along the lines of, "The fact that it's just you and a bunch of ten-and-unders here _isn't_ reassuring, y'know...."

There was nothing Pearson could say to that.

Things are more relaxed now. An uneasy sort of trust settling between them as the weeks stretch on, even if Pearson is still having one-sided conversations with himself more often than not. Bolger still cautious, but carefully accepting and slowly but surely the outbuilding is transformed into something liveable.

When Bolger finally deigns to start a conversation himself one evening it's simply to mutter, "It'll be done soon," and Pearson studies him in silence for a moment before giving a slow, careful, nod in response. Not quite certain where this is headed.

"So... so I guess I'll be leaving soon then."

"Why?" The word is out of Pearson's mouth without a thought and Bolger stares at him with something that is a combination of pure shock and worry and maybe, maybe a little bit of hope.

"Cause... I won't have anything to do here."

"There's always something to do."

There's nothing but an edgy sort of silence in response and Pearson sighs, choosing his next words carefully. "I'm not going to try to tell you what to do. Honestly, you don't owe me anything and as far as I'm concerned you can come and go as you please. But if you want to stay there's always going to be work to take care of."

Bolger says nothing and Pearson leaves him to his thoughts. More than half expecting every morning after that to find him long gone, possibly with Pearson's savings or whatever tools and equipment he can haul off to sell somewhere down the line.

Except he doesn't leave, and Pearson carefully doesn't comment on it. Beginning to show him how to do basic repairs and the work he does on engines. Simply enjoying the company for as long as it may last.


End file.
